


For those who have to live with me

by bongbingbong



Series: The Doctor and the Mailman [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Autistic Bones, Autistic Spock, Bad Parent Sarek (Star Trek), Depictions of Cowboy Doctoring (non graphic), Fluff and Angst, Gun mentions (but nobody shoots), Lots of Cuddling, M/M, S'chn T'gai Family Problems, Western AU, a not insignificant amount of tears, second in a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Western AU Spones ficSpock and Doctor McCoy both think they might be falling in love. The problem is, they've got to figure all that out while they're trying to find his missing mother.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: The Doctor and the Mailman [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965889
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	For those who have to live with me

**Author's Note:**

> "I haven't hope. I haven't faith.  
> I live two lives and sometimes three.  
> The lives I live make life a death  
> For those who have to live with me.  
> Knowing the virtues that I lack,  
> I pat myself upon the back."  
> \- Robert Frost, "Guilt"
> 
> As a note for this fic - I'm actually quite fond of Sarek (as a character, like he's kind of a dick but he's cool) and I've definitely shuffled some things about his personality around for the sake of the story. So just be prepared for a slightly-shittier-than-canon Sarek.

Spock was all business and grim determination on the road out. He was accustomed to long rides, and so he pushed the horses hard - it was unlikely that the Sheriff’s men were used to any kind of ride that required endurance. As for Doctor McCoy - well, what he lacked in stamina he more than made up for in stubbornness. The first hour of the ride they kept up the fastest pace they could, until both horses and riders were sweating and out of breath. From there, Spock urged them onwards at a brisk walk, trying to put as many miles between themselves and the town as they could manage. They rode in silence through the rest of the morning, as the reality of the situation settled over them, blanketing them in a sense of foreboding. They needed time to stop for a moment, to rest and regroup and have a look at the contents of the envelope. But more importantly, they had to make absolutely sure that when they did stop, nobody would be out looking for them. For now though, they needed to press on.

By late afternoon, when the sun was beginning to dip in the sky and turn orange, Spock realised he’d been drifting. His back and his legs were beginning to ache. The heat of the moment was long over, and the subsequent come down hit him hard - he had been staring at his own shadow on the dirt, watching the grasses, the patchy trees and the occasional stream drift past as he rode. He shook his head to clear it, and checked the horizon behind him for any pursuers. They were lucky so far. 

“When’d you last drink?” said McCoy. 

“I do not have any method of accurately telling the time on my person,” replied Spock, “but it was whenever we last watered the horses.”

“Hm. Have another drink then, it’s hot.”

Sarek had ensured that the horses were equipped with water and one blanket each. Spock knew he should be grateful, but his father’s propensity for micromanagement had always made him uncomfortable. He obediently took a small sip from his canteen, and set his eyes on the road ahead. After another stretch of silence, he spared a glance at McCoy.

If he thought his own energy was beginning to flag, checking on McCoy confirmed that his companion was nearing the end of his strength. His head hung forwards, bobbing with the movement of his horse. His hair was damp with sweat, and loose strands of it hung into his eyes. His hands gripped the pommel of his saddle, and for a split second he pitched forwards as exhaustion momentarily claimed him. Then his head jerked back up and he gasped, blinking hard and shaking his head to clear it. When he looked over to give Spock a sheepish smile.

“How much further?” he said softly. His voice was wrecked, and the guilt Spock felt at the sound of it was like a wound.

“I will be satisfied with our progress when it reaches nightfall.”

McCoy grunted in response, rolling his shoulders and trying his best to sit up a little straighter.

By the time night caught up with them, McCoy was bent over double in the saddle. He was swaying dangerously, his eyes half-lidded and weary, and Spock decided they had covered enough ground for the day. Spock veered off the path, taking Bessie’s bridle and leading her with him, until they reached a good, flat grassy area where they would be able to sleep comfortably. Spock dismounted, screwing his eyes shut against the protest of muscles that had cramped into place, and leaned on the grey horse for several moments until he was certain his legs would keep him upright. McCoy was gingerly trying to dismount, his face creased with concentration. He moved slowly, like he was underwater, and Spock hurried over to catch him as he tumbled from Bessie and crumpled to the ground. Spock tried to get his arm over his shoulders so he could help him over to where they were to sleep, but McCoy’s legs were trembling so badly he made a snap decision, hooking one arm under the doctor’s knees and lifting him as gently as he could manage. Although McCoy was a solid, warm weight in his arms, having their bodies pressed together like this alerted him to the fact that he was shaking all over. Spock tamped down on his rising panic as he set him down in the grass. The earth still radiated heat from the day, and McCoy let out a soft sigh as he lay back. The skies were clear and the moon was bright, highlighting the frown that seemed etched into his features. Spock knelt beside him, his hands hovering, unsure of what to do, where to touch to give his weary friend comfort.

“You are not hurt?” said Spock, keeping his voice carefully even.

“Naw,” said McCoy, a slight smile touching his lips. His eyes were half-lidded, but his gaze was steady.

“A day’s ride should not have this profound an effect on your wellbeing,” said Spock, “You are healthy, and although from your appearance your age is more advanced than my own, you are not yet so senior that your endurance would be affected.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“Well thanks for that assessment, Spock,” he snapped, which quelled some of the worry that was threatening to bubble over in Spock’s chest. At least he still had the energy to be irritable. McCoy took a long breath, then exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

“They were just too busy to look in on me when they’d locked me away, what with tryin’ to find your sorry ass. Haven’t eaten in a while, is all.”

Spock had filed away a list of things they needed to do next in his brain, in order of urgency. He moved “figure out a way to get back at the Sheriff” up a couple of notches.

“You were put away two days ago, were you not?”

“Uh, or three, countin’ today. Or was it two? Sorry, brain’s feelin’ a bit fogged up.”

“No matter, I will find you something-” 

Spock went to rise, but McCoy stopped him with a hand on his wrist. 

“Don’t be an idiot, Spock,” he said, “I’d really rather just sleep at this point.”

Spock weighed up the possibilities for a moment, before he relented. They were not too far out from several towns in the area. Of course, Sarek had neglected to put anything edible in their supplies. Perhaps he had done it on purpose.

A quiet snore brought Spock back to the present. McCoy had been telling the truth, sleep had mercifully overtaken him quickly. Spock hesitated for a moment, then passed his hand over McCoy’s shoulder as if to brush away some dirt. When the doctor didn’t stir, he allowed his hand to linger there for a few moments longer.

*

As the night drew on, the heat quickly leached from the earth. The ground did very little for insulation, and unfortunately neither did their blankets. Spock had almost entirely given up on trying to sleep, and sat huddled with the blanket around his shoulders instead, wishing he could risk making a fire. But the land here was too flat and open - if there was anybody out looking for them, they would be noticed immediately. McCoy had rolled onto his side, curled up to preserve heat. Spock pictured himself lying down next to McCoy, wrapping his arm around his waist, and drawing him close. Had it been anyone else, doing so for warmth might have seemed logical... but with McCoy, it was different. The part of him that dared to imagine was not the practical part that sought out physical warmth, but the part that had allowed his hand to linger on McCoy’s shoulder. The part that craved the seemingly endless comfort and care that McCoy had shown him.

But McCoy - he had suffered for him. He had allowed himself to be taken and locked away, and had kept silent for him. The man gave far too much of himself far too readily, and as a result was lying there, metres away, tired and hungry and barely able to stand. Because of him. He could not allow this to continue in the manner that it had - the matter did not concern McCoy, but concern seemed to be one of the many things McCoy did not seem to care to control about himself. 

The guilt pressed on Spock’s chest, tight and burning and nauseating. He did not want to hurt McCoy. But neither did he want him to continue to make rash and illogical decisions that resulted in situations like this. Spock had had precious few friends in his life, and he had to admit, he was at a loss as to what to do with this strange, irrational doctor who had inserted himself into his life so suddenly. 

A quiet breeze kicked up, and Spock tensed against the way it chilled him. McCoy shivered, and tried to curl up even tighter, tucking his head into the crook of his arm. Spock sighed and unwrapped his blanket, placing it instead over McCoy. It would not do for him to waken from the cold, when he so badly needed rest. McCoy gave a soft mutter and drew the blanket up under his chin. 

A thought occurred to Spock. If his internal map was correct - and it was seldom wrong - they were only a few miles out from Enterprise, a little town that occasionally featured on his mail route. He had a friend there, another extremely odd man who seemed to find all of his shortcomings endearing rather than frustrating. Yes, Jim Kirk would know what to do.

*

A few hours later, McCoy woke to what would have been a very pleasant and mild morning - if his entire body didn’t seem to have cramped up. He uncurled from where he had been lying, stretching out with a groan as his aching muscles protested the movement. He sat up slowly, yawning and looking around for - Spock?

The man was sitting propped up against a nearby tree, blanketless and on an odd angle that suggested that he hadn’t intended to fall asleep there. Looking down, McCoy realised that Spock must have given him his own blanket at some point during the night. Idiot!

“The hell do you call this?” said McCoy. He scrambled into a sitting position, fully intent on going over and giving Spock a piece of his mind, when his legs screamed in agony and he fell back, shocked at the sudden ferocity of the pain. Now that he was aware of it, practically every muscle in his body left like it had locked up tight, his skin felt chafed and raw, and the pain felt like it might send him over the edge. He focused back on Spock, who had woken up after his outburst.

“You were cold,” Spock said simply. He rose, stretched, and then went about preparing the horses. That also meant at some point Spock had unsaddled them.

“Sorry, I musta’ fallen asleep faster’n I knew what was happenin’,” he said, hating the way his tongue slid clumsily over the syllables.

“You are unaccustomed to long rides. You are unequipped for any kind of distance riding. And you need to eat. That puts you in a poor position to do very much but rest, at the present.”

“You don’t look all that fresh yourself,” grumbled McCoy, “and we don’t have time for restin’, we’ve got to find your mother.”

Spock pulled the envelope from his horse’s saddlebag, then went and sat by McCoy.

“You are correct on both counts, but unfortunately they are at odds. Both of us are fatigued enough that our mental faculties are compromised. And yet, I fear time is against us where my mother is concerned.”

Spock took a deep breath before he opened the envelope.

“Doctor, I must ask you one last time. Are you certain that you wish to-”

“Goddamnit Spock, just show me what’s inside! You’re stuck with me now, and there’s no getting rid of Leonard McCoy once he’s made up his mind, so you’re just going to have to deal with it!”

Inside the envelope was a small folder marked “Anderson,” several maps, a photograph of a woman, and a letter.

“I’m going to hazard a guess here,” said McCoy, “but I get the feeling your pa isn’t just some rich old man who might’ve got on the wrong side of some unsavoury types.”

“Indeed not,” said Spock. He kept his voice carefully level, but did not meet McCoy’s gaze. He took out the photograph of the woman. 

“That her?” said McCoy, scooting a little closer.

“Yes,” said Spock, passing the photo to McCoy, “I imagine my father included it in order to elicit an emotional response, in the event that I had second thoughts.”

“Wow, that’s…”

“I am aware,” sighed Spock. 

McCoy gave the photo back.

“She’s pretty,” he said with a smile.

“That is irrelevant,” said Spock, picking up the letter.

“Alright alright, if anyone’s goin’ to get snarky around here it oughta be me,” said McCoy. Spock nodded his assent.

“I apologise.”

McCoy didn’t know how to respond to that, so he leaned over to have a look at the letter. It was written in a neat, precise hand; each letter, word and line evenly spaced.

_ Spock, _

_ I regret to inform you that I have not been entirely truthful in revealing the disappearance of your mother. _

“Great first line,” said McCoy, “who the hell is this guy anyway?”

“My father runs a syndicate of private investigators.”

“He’s a Pinkerton?”

“Not quite,” Spock’s lips were pressed into a small line, and his words were short and clipped, “wrong organisation. He would never flaunt his name in the same manner. But for the people he manages, he is…  _ the _ Pinkerton, it could be said.”

McCoy whistled, “I knew there was something up with him.”

“There is always something “up” with my father. Hence my reluctance to remain under his influence.”

Spock scanned the rest of the letter, and his mouth drew into a tight scowl.

“It appears I was right to do so.”

_ When we spoke, it would’ve been as if I wasn’t aware of her whereabouts - that’s not the case. The maps I’ve included will lead you to where I’ve surmised she’s been taken. You’ll need only retrieve her and return her to me.  _

_ I hesitate to include any details of the circumstances under which I discovered your mother was missing. You’ll undoubtedly scrutinise my conclusions and attempt to come to your own. As you often have been in the past, so you will be now - incorrect.  _

_ Despite my reservations on this, I’ll reveal the following, because I also know that without this information you will also undoubtedly pry, as is in your nature.  _

_ The day your mother was taken - by my calculations three days ago by the time you should be reading this, I returned to our home to find the kitchen carefully bloodied, and various household items pushed off their perches, seemingly at random. The effect was, to the untrained eye, one of a domestic scuffle that had ended badly - the intent to imply that I was the perpetrator was clear, if poorly handled. _

_ The one comfort I can take from this situation is that whoever has done this - they do not wish to harm your mother. Otherwise, I believe whoever it was would have left a body. _

_ As to who this mysterious person was, my reasoning is such. For each of my employees, I have taken great care to impart knowledge of the existence and location of one extremely valuable item inside my house. Each man has the possibility to make himself rich very quickly by availing himself of the object in question. My ivory gripped colt is missing along with your mother, so the man you are looking for is Silas Anderson. He believes I’m not aware of the location of his second residence - he is mistaken. You’ll find enclosed instructions on how to get there.  _

_ I don’t need to tell you that nobody can know that Amanda is missing. The man who has taken her took great pains to frame me as the perpetrator, and knowledge of her disappearance will undoubtedly cause others to attempt to capitalise on my current position.  _

The letter wasn’t signed off. 

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” said McCoy, “but your pa’s a dick.”

Spock looked away, and he took a very deep breath.

“I understand, and share your sentiment,” he said softly.

Then, Spock had a quick glance at the maps, and promptly tore them up into tiny pieces, scattering them in the wind. McCoy’s eyes widened.

“Spock, what the hell? Don’t you need those?”

“My father is one of the most respected minds in the private investigation business,” he said, carefully replacing the rest of the documents in the envelope, “but he has one fatal flaw - he does not allow himself to believe he is ever wrong. Intellectually, or morally.”

“So what do you know?”

“Several of his employees have a shared hideout that my father is not aware of. Presumably, in the event of something like this.”

“He’s that trustworthy, huh,” said McCoy.

Spock rose, then held out a hand to McCoy, which he took gratefully. He was still a little shaky on his legs, and every muscle in his body hurt like hell, but at least he could stand.

“Indeed. We will continue due north, resupply, and see if my hypothesis is correct.”

“You got a place in mind?” said McCoy.

“A place,” said Spock, “and a friend.”

*

Early to bed and early to rise made a man… something that James Kirk didn’t much care to be. However, he didn’t have much choice in the matter, being the one deputy looking after the town of Enterprise. He’d already been up and about for far too long come midday, when he crossed over to the Bridge Hotel to see Chekov for some lunch. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him linger in the main street, his hands in his pockets, staring into the horizon. Sometimes it just happened - he would find himself taken up by a train of thought that would roll on too fast to keep track of, and then suddenly, minutes later, he was staring into the distance with a vague impression that there was something he needed to be doing. This time though, the impression dissipated like a cloud of steam when he realised there were two people in his eyeline.

One of them was Spock. There was no mistaking his impeccable posture, though it was a little odd that he’d arrived without his wagon. The other man - presumably a man - looked to be injured perhaps, or unconscious. Either way, whoever it was seemed to be having trouble keeping upright in the saddle. It was enough of a deviation from the usual way Spock arrived that Kirk began to walk out to meet them.

As he drew closer, he could see that Spock’s features were tight with worry. His companion, it appeared, was conscious but very, very tired. Kirk broke into a jog, and Spock raised a hand to him in greeting.

“Jim.”

“Spock,” said Kirk as he neared them. The stranger’s horse seemed exhausted too, and he gently pried the reins from his hands, giving the man a smile that he hoped was reassuring.

“Jim Kirk at your service.”

“Leonard McCoy,” said the man, doing his best to return the smile as Kirk began to coax the horse onwards, murmuring reassurances that the town was nearby, “thanks.”

“Jim,” repeated Spock, and Kirk looked up at him.

“What’s happened?” he said.

“My mother is missing. My father believes he is being framed. McCoy and I are effectively on the run.”

Kirk whistled. 

“Sounds rough.”

“Indeed.”

“Where’d you ride out from anyway?”

“Goldedge. Yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday morning?!” Kirk almost shouted, his eyes wide, “how are you here already? Actually, don’t answer that. I can figure it out from the state of your friend. Jesus, Spock.”

“As I have already stated, we could not run the risk of being followed. Sarek broke us out of the local jail.”

“So you thought you’d bring them down on my ass?”

Spock fell silent at this, stricken. Kirk patted him fondly on the leg.

“I’m just messing with you Spock, I’m sorry. You know I’d help you out no matter what.”

Spock lifted his chin a little, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Aw, come on Spock.”

Now it was Kirk’s turn to look worried, but at the raise of an eyebrow from Spock, his features relaxed back into a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Okay, you got me too. Let’s get you two cleaned up, huh?”

*

The Bridge Hotel was (miraculously, despite the proprietor) a tidy, cozy joint that was a common stopping point for the many travellers that passed through Enterprise on their way elsewhere. It was owned by a pleasant, if eccentric duo; Pavel Chekov, who did the cooking, the cleaning, and the cursing, and Hikaru Sulu, whose role in the running of the hotel was a mystery - except that it seemed to require him to be shirtless reasonably often. He was passing through the lobby in this particular state of deshabille when Kirk, Spock, and McCoy entered, with an extremely long knife in one hand and a leg of beef in the other.

“Deputy!” he said, brandishing the beef by way of greeting, “Spock! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

McCoy wobbled slightly next to Spock, and he put a hand on his elbow to steady him.

“It is gratifying to see you too, Mr Sulu.”

“Sulu, have you got a room and a hot meal for these gentlemen?”

“I do indeed! I can take you up now if you like, and I’ll have some stew sent up later.”

“What is in the stew?” said Spock, eyeing the meat in Sulu’s hand.

“Steak and beans… some other things... I don’t know where Chekov got the recipe from, but he says it’s from-”

“Russia, yes,” said Kirk, “listen, better bring up some cheese and bread or something as well.”

Spock relaxed slightly, and followed Sulu upstairs. His hand never left McCoy’s elbow, and the doctor seemed grateful enough to lean into his support, especially on making their way up the stairs. He moved slowly, and when they reached the top he exhaled sharply. Sulu chatted away happily about the long knife he was holding - apparently it was an antique - which gave McCoy a moment to collect himself before they entered. Spock squeezed his arm lightly and McCoy gave him a tired smile, covering his hand with his own. 

*

Kirk came to find them not long afterwards. The room was small and sparse, but it had two chairs, a little wooden table, and two beds. McCoy was napping, having quickly succumbed to exhaustion, and was sprawled out on one of the beds. He was far more relaxed than he had been last night; his features were lax and his chest rose and fell evenly as he slept. There were generous helpings of the food Sulu had mentioned previously on the table. Spock was seated there, a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand and the file on Anderson open in the other. 

“So,” said Kirk, pulling up the other chair, “you gonna explain yourself?”

Instead of replying, Spock pushed Sarek’s letter towards him. Kirk squinted at the words for a while, his lips moving imperceptibly as he read. When he had finished, he pushed it back towards Spock.

“Fuck,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.

“Indeed,” agreed Spock, “and to make things worse, I believe Sarek is incorrect about his hypothesis as to where she has been taken. In addition to this, I believe there is something… incongruous about the story that I cannot quite place.”

“That can’t be why you came here.”

“I have always valued your insights,” said Spock carefully, ”but no. Enterprise is quite near to the place  _ I _ believe she has been taken, and I would like to confirm my suspicions before I make a move.”

“That’s fair. What about him?” said Kirk. Spock’s eyes strayed to McCoy again, and felt that now-familiar twist of guilt in his chest.

“He is - was the doctor. Back in Goldedge. He has been… inordinately kind to me. He insisted on accompanying me on my journey, and I fear he will insist on continuing to help, despite his unsuitability to the task.”

The dismissal of McCoy’s skills was at odds with the gentle, almost reverent tone with which Spock spoke about him, a detail which was not lost on Kirk.

“He’s a... friend then? He’s here to help?” he said, watching Spock’s reaction carefully. Spock’s lips pressed together.

“Yes, but I fear he has been ill used, by being in my company.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” said Kirk, snatching some cheese off Spock’s plate, “you wouldn’t have it in you to “ill use” anybody.”

“Nevertheless, the doctor has an… unusually generous spirit. My worry is that I have taken advantage of it.”

“Why? Did you ask him to come with you?”

“No, he - Jim, I know you are attempting to assuage my guilt, but the fact of the matter is that I  _ want- _ ” 

Spock stopped himself suddenly, and schooled his features into the careful blankness Kirk knew all too well from the early days they had known each other, when Spock had been even less forthcoming with his thoughts. Nevertheless, Kirk seemed to find the answer he was looking for in his expression - as he always did - because he nodded.

“If it’s any consolation, it seems like he wants the same thing. Seems like a good basis as any for a partnership if you ask me.”

“I did not ask you.”

“No, but that’s because I’ve always had to grab you by the ears and shake any problems you need help with out of you,” said Kirk fondly, “it’s nice to know you’ve got someone around who’s going to do the same.”

Spock was silent for a long time, the only sound in the room that of McCoy’s slow breaths. He fiddled with the edge of Anderson’s file - there was something bothering him about the whole situation there too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Some elusive detail that was just out of his reach-

McCoy stirred, as if he sensed Spock’s distress. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up with a groan. Spock was by his side in an instant.

“Doctor, how would you describe your current condition?”

McCoy looked momentarily annoyed, but his expression softened.

“I would describe my current condition as tired, but I’ll live,” he said, his voice still gravelly from sleep.

“This is understandable,” said Spock, “do you feel like you can eat? You have gone without sustenance for several days.”

McCoy looked over to Kirk.

“You’ve been his friend for longer. Tell me, is he always like this?”

Kirk grinned, “no, I think you’re just special.”

His grin turned into a laugh at McCoy’s face flushed, and then grew even redder as Spock brought his food over to him.

“Hell, I’m not an invalid!” said McCoy, struggling into a sitting position, “I’m alright, I got it, leave me alone!”

“That’s no way to treat the man who’s bringing you your dinner!” said Kirk.

“You!” McCoy shook a finger at him, “you’re enjoyin’ this!”

“No comment,” said Kirk, “now eat up.”

Afterwards, McCoy tried to accompany them on their scout. He gave it his best shot, and Chekov even gladly lent him a horse while Bessie rested, but the second he tried to swing into the saddle, both legs seized up and he fell back with a grunt.

“I apologise,” said Spock, “I should not have-”

“There’s no need for that shit,” he ground out, trying but failing to keep his irritation under wraps.

“I understand your frustration,” continued Spock, “but you truly did do a remarkable job of holding out for this long, for someone unaccustomed to riding long distances.”

“Yeah, the only time I’ve ridden anywhere near to that long I was horizontal for  _ days,” _ said Kirk.

He held out an arm to steady McCoy, who glowered and pulled away.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Kirk did his best to sound reassuring. As suspected though, McCoy was having none of it.

“You two best be careful. I know a couple of idiots when I see ‘em,” he grumbled. Kirk smiled and put his hand on his heart.

“I promise to be responsible.”

“Ah, don’t believe it for a second,” said McCoy, waving him away, “I’m gonna go make myself useful somewhere else, and if the two of you come back hurt on account of some idiot decision one of you made-”

“You’ll kill us?” said Kirk. McCoy rolled his eyes and stomped back in the direction of the hotel. As he neared the entrance however, he whirled around one last time, shaking a finger at them.

“Be careful,” he called.

“Yessir!” replied Kirk with a mock-salute. Spock remained quietly troubled, but raised a hand in farewell at McCoy’s retreating back.

*

McCoy had to keep busy. He’d probably wear a hole in the floor if he was forced to just wait out however long it took those two to get back. But after being booted from the kitchen by Chekov, and then the garden by Sulu, he found himself wandering out back to the barn where Bessie was. The place was cool and dark, and smelled of clean straw. Bessie was all clean and brushed, and she nuzzled into his hand when he approached her.

“Sorry about everything, girl,” he said, “it’s been a rough few days, huh?”

Bessie snorted in reply, and McCoy rested his forehead against her neck, sighing.

“I just don’t know what to do,” he said, “I don’t think I’m cut out for all this on-the-run business. When I’m doctorin’ I always know what to do, what to say, what I need to - all of that. But this? I can’t help thinkin’ he’s better off without me. ‘Specially now that he’s caught up with Jim-”

Bessie shifted her weight and shook her head, bouncing McCoy off her.

“You don’t think so?”

“First sign of madness, you know,” said a voice. McCoy startled, looking around for who had spoken. A woman stepped out of one of the stalls on the far side of the barn. She was black haired, brown-skinned, and had extremely intense dark eyes. She had her arms crossed and leaned against one of the support beams, looking him up and down. McCoy noted with surprise that she was wearing trousers and a red checkered button-down shirt that appeared as though they’d been tailored specifically for her. What this implied, he didn’t know, but it made him uneasy.

“You one of Jim’s weird friends?” she said, and McCoy tried to stop himself from taking a step backwards from this woman, who smiled like she’d figured out all of his secrets.

“He got a lot of those?” replied McCoy.

“Uh huh,” she said. 

Then, a crack in her facade as she winced. McCoy had been thrown enough that he hadn’t seen that the shoulder of her - admittedly, also red - shirt was stained with still-tacky blood.

“Can I take a look at that?” he said from where he stood. The woman narrowed her eyes at him.

“You a doctor or something?”

“A doctor, yeah.”

She eyed him cautiously for a moment, but then looked to Bessie.

“That your horse?” she said.

“Bessie? Yeah,” he said, giving her nose an affectionate pat. Bessie rubbed her head up against his shoulders, which seemed to satisfy the woman, because she nodded.

“Okay then. You can take a look. You got your kit on you?”

His kit! It dawned on McCoy that he had left all of his worldly possessions behind in Goldedge. The immensity of the realisation loomed too large for him to manage now. He had to keep it small. A minor irritation. He was without his instruments.

“I ah - I had to leave it behind.”

She gave him that look again, and then laughed.

“Had to make a quick getaway did you? Come on, Chekov has some basic stuff in his storeroom.”

“What for? That Sulu fellow waving his knives around all the time?”

“No,” said the woman, “it’s for me.”

She winked, and McCoy felt like he had no choice but to follow her in, although he felt very much like a confused duckling.

Chekov did indeed seem entirely unsurprised by her charging through his kitchen into the storage room.

“You have someone to do the dirty work for you today Uhura!” he called after her.

“He volunteered!” she replied in a sing-song voice.

“I’ll boil some water.”

Once they were in the storeroom, Uhura seemed to have her own process all sorted out. She pulled out a stool from beside one of the shelves, and gestured to a wooden chest down the other end of the room. Unsurprisingly, there were several tiny, highly polished antique-looking knives in there. Needles and catgut and bandages too, which was helpful. There were also a handful of unlabelled vials in there, an assortment of brushes and rags, and a small saw that he didn’t want to have to think about the implications of right now.

“You really stay prepared, huh?” he said. When Uhura didn’t reply, he looked over to see she was attempting to unbutton her shirt one-handed. She was not having a lot of luck.

“Hey, lemme help with that,” he said, finishing the job for her easily. She was wearing an odd kind of sleeveless undershirt beneath it. She watched him with open curiosity as he carefully pulled her bad arm out of its sleeve, revealing the torn up skin.

“This looks like a bullet wound,” said McCoy quietly.

“You’re right there,” replied Uhura. She waited for the next question.

“How the hell did you get this?”

She shrugged her good shoulder.

“Had a bit of a disagreement.”

“A bit of a - I ain’t one to pry, but this is one hell of an injury and you’re treatin’ it like you get these all the time.”

“Maybe I do. Careful, now.”

Chekov kicked the door open and McCoy jumped.

“Hot water!” he said cheerfully, setting a copper bowl down beside McCoy.

“You guys uh… really know what you’re doin’, huh.”

“You can tell him what you do Uhura, Doctor McCoy is on the run as well,” said Chekov, “with Spock.”

Both of Uhura’s eyebrows raised at that.

“You’re friends with Spock?”

“Jesus,” said McCoy, “yeah I’m friends with - does he know everybody?”

“Just around here. He’s a nice man,” and with that, Chekov disappeared again.

McCoy and Uhura eyed each other, suddenly a little overwhelmed by the multitudes of loose ends suddenly hanging between the two of them.

“Well, name’s Leonard McCoy.”

“Nyota Uhura.”

Uhura extended her good hand, and Leonard clasped it briefly. Then, he got to work.

“So Spock’s pa is… an interesting kind of guy,” said McCoy, as he began to clean her wound, “and well… his mother’s missing. He and that Jim fellow are out trying to figure out if she’s where they reckon she is.”

“I don’t doubt she will be, Spock has a nose for these kinds of things,” said Uhura. She was trying to keep her tone light, but her words were beginning to sound strained.

“That’s me,” said McCoy, “now you go.”

Uhura rolled her eyes, but spoke nonetheless.

“I’m kind of… a helping hand around these parts. If people are having a… failure to communicate.”

McCoy pondered the meaning of this for a moment.

“Sort of like a gun for hire?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Uhura’s mouth twisted into a scowl.

“I’d like to think I’m a little more picky with my clients than that.”

“Sorry! Sorry, so what kind of ah… communications do you deal with then?”

“Oh, the usual,” said Uhura, “rich businessman wants to buy up some land from an old couple. They don’t want to sell. Businessman doesn’t get the message. I go and reinforce it.”

“With your gun,” said McCoy, his voice slightly faint. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

“Among other things,” said Uhura.

McCoy decided he didn’t want to know what she meant by that. He focused instead on stitching up the ragged line that had been gouged out of her arm by the bullet passing through. Uhura’s breathing became slightly more forced, but other than that she kept perfectly still while McCoy kept up a continuous stream of talk to keep her distracted - mostly complaints about the past few days, details about sleeping rough and long rides that he knew would make her laugh at him.

Finally, he finished and Uhura relaxed, sagging back into her chair. She tilted her head back and let out a long, slow exhale.

“I know you’ve done this a dozen times over already,” said McCoy, “but keep that thing clean, you hear?”

“Yeah, I hear,” she replied, standing up slowly, painfully picking up her shirt and attempting to put it back on.

“Oh for the love of - this is what I mean. You know everyone around here, get someone to help you,” McCoy smacked Uhura’s hands away and helped her back into her shirt himself, which for some reason she seemed to find funny.

“I know why Spock likes you,” she said.

“Well don’t leave me hangin’,” replied McCoy flatly.

“You just helped me in and out of my shirt and you didn’t give me a second glance. A lady might be offended that she wasn’t drawin’ your eye.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, mocking him. He let go of her shirt like he’d been burned and tucked his hands under his armpits instead, his whole body clamming up. His heart had suddenly started to pound, and he hated himself for reacting with fear.

“I’m not in the habit of thinkin’ about that sort of thing when I’m in the middle of workin’,” he muttered. Uhura’s smile faded, and she put her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry honey, I was just messin’. Don’t pay any mind to me.”

McCoy wanted to stay annoyed about it, but the rational part of him whispered that she had truly only been teasing. That she hadn’t meant any meanness from it. And as far as he could tell, she wasn’t someone he had to be afraid of. He felt weak though, fragile in a way he didn’t enjoy the feeling of. Like he was slowly fraying at the edges, and any nudge in the wrong direction might cause him to unravel completely. He could feel a heavy, wet sob perched in the middle of his chest, and he swallowed it down for later, clearing his throat.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, hoping to god she wouldn’t tease him for the hoarseness in his voice. To his relief, she wasn’t that unkind. She gave his arm a little squeeze instead, and waited for him to continue.

“I’m just feelin’ a little rattled lately is all. Normally I wouldn’t be like this.”

“It’s alright,” she said, “he’ll be back soon.”

McCoy met her eyes and her smile was now warm, not teasing, and he found he even had the strength to return it.

*

Uhura was right - Spock and Kirk returned a little while after McCoy had seen Uhura to her room (she had a usual one, of course she did). He had been helping Chekov out with dinner since he had finally found a job he could do without annoying the hell out of the Russian - peeling potatoes. The room was hot and humid, and so McCoy was in his shirtsleeves, with his sleeves rolled up while he worked. 

“Chekov! Doctor McCoy!” said Kirk, shouldering the door open. Spock entered behind him. Both of them looked dusty and tired.

“Deputy!” said McCoy, jumping up, “you guys’re back! Hold on, sorry, lemme put my vest back on, it’s just real hot in here, so I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Kirk, waving him off. He seemed impatient, they clearly had news.

“What happened?” said McCoy. He threw the currently half-peeled potato he was holding back into the bucket, wiped the sweat from his brow, then wiped his hands on his trousers. Chekov looked like he was holding back a swear for the sake of Kirk. And Spock… Spock was still staring at him with that odd, screwed-up look on his face.

“A lot happened,” said Kirk, “we have a lot to discuss. Not here, though - no Chekov, not because of you.”

Chekov, who had opened his mouth - presumably to make some kind of complaint - shut it again.

“I just don’t want to stand around in your kitchen making plans.”

“I will go upstairs,” announced Spock, and left suddenly, as though there were something extremely pressing for him to attend to. Kirk looked as mystified as McCoy felt, but he shrugged.

“Yeah, we found some interesting stuff. C’mon upstairs.”

“Sure thing Deputy, be there in a minute.”

McCoy shrugged his vest back on and grabbed his jacket, then pointed at a large jug on the counter near Chekov.

“Is that clean?” he said. Chekov brandished the ladle he was currently holding.

“You leave my potatoes behind, you make my day so busy, now you want my water? Ah, take it.”

“You are a godsend, thank you Chekov,” said McCoy quickly, swiping the jug. Chekov made an inarticulate noise of irritation, and flapped a hand at him to shoo him out of the kitchen.

Upstairs, McCoy poured water for his two friends and watched as they both confirmed his suspicions by gulping it all down in one go. Spock sat on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed with weariness. Kirk poured himself some more water, then inspected the jug.

“Hey Spock, why don’t you put those flowers in this?”

Spock’s head snapped up, and the momentary emotion that flashed across his face was similar to that of a startled deer.There were indeed three wild sunflowers; they had been wrapped up in his jacket and placed on the bed. Spock took them out and did as he was told, carefully arranging them in the water jug. McCoy watched him, though Spock seemed to carefully avoid his eyes.

“So,” said McCoy, “what’s happened to Amanda?”

Kirk seemed to be waiting for Spock to reply, but he didn’t do so, continuing to fiddle with the stems of the sunflowers.

“Unfortunately, that part we’re still mystified about. Kind of.” said Kirk finally, much to McCoy’s relief.

“Okay, well start from the start then.”

“Amanda’s there. She seems like she’s-” Kirk floundered and shook his head, attempting to put his thoughts in order.

“What’s the place look like?” said McCoy. 

“The hideout? It’s like a little cabin in the middle of nowhere. Lots of trees for cover. There’s a stream nearby.”

“And what’d you see when you arrived?”

“There were people inside,” Kirk seemed to hit his stride now, and continued, “Amanda, and this Anderson guy - they were both coming in and out. They were… they were cooking. She wasn’t hurt or anything. Not that we could see.”

“When you say they were cooking-”

“Amanda killed a chicken, he chopped some wood, she fetched some water, he… plucked the damn thing. At first, we thought they’d run away together.”

“An illogical conclusion, I have a vague familiarity with Anderson and he has very little to offer my mother in the way of suitable companionship.” Spock had put his hands behind his back, but he still refused to turn or look at McCoy, or even acknowledge him.

“Anything else change your mind apart from it being… illogical?” said McCoy. 

Spock didn’t reply. His shoulders tensed, but that was the only indication McCoy had even been heard in the first place. McCoy felt a sudden burst of irritation.

“Spock, what the hell is wrong with you?”

He heard a half-articulated exhale, like Spock had started to say something but aborted the thought. 

“Well?” said McCoy.

“Doctor,” said Spock, his voice deliberately slow and even, “would you please dress yourself properly before we continue our discussion?”

McCoy looked down at himself. Admittedly, his collar and sleeve buttons were undone and rumpled, and his vest had been thrown on and left hanging open. He still felt sweaty, and his hair was probably a mess too. It seemed odd, given that Spock and he had gotten ready for bed together on the first day that they’d met. But on the other hand, Spock had been noticeably uncomfortable with that, too. He quickly straightened out his clothes, pushing aside his confusion for later. Kirk watched as he did so, his expression unreadable.

“Okay, I’m decent,” said McCoy, and Spock finally turned around.

“We were discussing my mother’s behaviour at the hideout,” he said, as though the past minute hadn’t happened.

“That’s the thing,” said Kirk, thankfully picking up the conversation, “Amanda looked… it’s hard to explain, but  _ guarded _ is the best way to describe it. She never let him get too close to her, she never smiled, and she hardly replied when Anderson tried to speak to her.”

“So she’s being held there against her will?” said McCoy.

“That is one hypothesis,” said Spock, “but that begs the question - why? Why keep her alive?”

“I dunno, maybe he wants her?” said McCoy, “maybe Anderson’s got a thing for your mom - sorry Spock.”

“Actually Doctor McCoy, I agree.” 

Spock did not sound particularly happy about this admission.

“There’s another possibility though,” said Kirk, “and it’s not one that Spock particularly likes.”

“As a matter of fact, Deputy Kirk, I hate it.”

“As you can see. The thing is,” continued Kirk, “Sarek is… untrustworthy at the best of times. And part of me wonders if he was trying to lure you out with a cockamamie story about a kidnapping, since he knows the one thing you wouldn’t be able to say no to is your mother being rescued.”

“I hate to say it Spock,” said McCoy, “but that tracks too. It could just be that your mother’s been coerced into being stuck there with a lackey she doesn’t particularly like.”

“Unfortunately Doctor, as much as I sincerely wish it were not the case, I also agree. I said I did not like the option, but-” Spock sighed, “it is on equal grounds with the other.”

McCoy frowned as another detail dawned on him.

“But… why the hell would they want to lure you out somewhere?”

Spock finally looked up, and McCoy realised with alarm that his eyes had gotten the glazed, shiny look of someone who was very close to crying.

“My father-” said Spock, but his throat closed over the rest of the sentence.

“Spock,” said Kirk, his voice impossibly gentle, “you want me to explain?”

Spock took a moment to breathe, and then nodded.

“You see,” said Kirk, “Sarek is - well, when Spock decided he wanted to go into botany instead of continuing the family business-”

“Wait just a sec,” said McCoy holding up a hand, “ _ botany _ ?”

Kirk blinked at him.

“Did you not… know? He’s got an almost encyclopedic catalogue of all of the plants he’s encountered on his mail route - oh, you think he’s a mailman.”

“I am a mailman,” said Spock, having recovered some of his voice, “I like delivering the mail.”

“Alright, but aside from that! Sarek basically disowned him. Amanda was beside herself when it happened, but she’s married to the guy, so it’s not like she could do anything. Sarek’s always wished Spock would just disappear or something, and the fact that he knows so much about the awful things he does makes him dangerous… maybe it was only a matter of time-”

Spock’s knees suddenly buckled, and he folded slowly to the ground, where he knelt. McCoy was by his side in an instant, carefully prying his fingers from where they had tangled in his hair, and were pulling far too hard.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said softly, “Spock?”

Spock sucked in a gasp of air.

“Spock, you’re alright. Nobody’s going to let anything happen to you - not Jim, not me, not any of those weirdos downstairs-”

Spock shook his head.

“My notes,” said Spock, and his voice was barely there, as though the words were so heavy they needed to be wrenched from his lungs. 

“I had years worth of notes, sketches-” Spock swallowed, “pressings - and Sarek now has access to everything. He could do whatever he wanted with all of it. It will all be gone by now, I know it.”

“Spock, you don’t know that. You don’t know what he’s going to do.”

Spock was trembling. On his other side, Kirk knelt beside him, his hands in his lap.

“Spock,” said McCoy, “is it okay if I touch you?”

Spock nodded.

“ _ Please.” _

The word was spoken so softly it barely made its way into existence, but McCoy and Kirk moved as one, enveloping Spock in their arms from both sides as Spock clung to them. His hands grabbed great fistfuls of their shirts, as if the physical sensation might keep him tethered to this tenuous reality, away from where his thoughts were running from him so quickly he barely had time to figure out if they made sense or not. Faintly, Spock was aware that McCoy had his palm flat against his back, and was rubbing small, even circles there. He focused on the warmth. He focused on the feeling of being surrounded, protected. On one side, Kirk was a warm, steady presence, but McCoy... the trembling he felt in his own body was being mirrored, and he felt the subtle hitch of the slighter man’s shoulders. McCoy had his head pressed into the crook of his neck, and he realised with faint surprise that the doctor appeared to be clinging to him just as tightly. It made sense. McCoy had been under an equal amount of strain, and likely required comfort also. The thought was enough to snap him out from under the weight of sudden despair that had descended upon him. For now, that would have to suffice.

*

Kirk, apparently, had figured out the perfect plan. Spock was inclined to believe him. Admittedly, he himself was a little at a loss as to how to proceed without putting his mother in danger, and so the promise of a plan was helpful. Except, of course, for the fact that Kirk refused to tell him what it was.

“You’re dead on your feet,” he’d said, the two of them at a standoff that Spock was ill equipped to hold his own in at the present moment. Kirk was right, but the feeling of uncertainty at how this would all end kept him up, adrenaline buzzing through his chest and keeping him alert despite the weight of exhaustion hanging over him. There was no longer any immediate danger - his mother was, if not happy, at least safe. He would approach the problem with a clearer head tomorrow. If he could only sleep!

Spock was reclined on the bed reading through Sarek’s letter for the hundredth time, when McCoy wandered back in. It was dark outside at this point, the room lit in the dim orange glow of a lamp, and he noted that McCoy seemed to have taken the time to go and wash - his face was clean and free of dirt. However, for the first time since Spock had met him, his face was dotted with a few days’ worth of greying stubble, and Spock caught and squashed the fleeting thought that it looked very good on him.

“Surprised you’re still up,” said McCoy, crossing to his side of the room.

“I find sleep… elusive.”

“Want me to sing you a bedtime song?”

“Please doctor,” said Spock, “I find myself too weary to expend the energy in attempting to determine if you are joking or not.”

McCoy sat down on his bed, untying his neckerchief and rolling his neck from side to side.

“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t really know if I was joking myself.”

Spock watched as McCoy removed his boots and jacket, then hesitated at his vest.

“I apologise also,” said Spock, staring at the ceiling, “for my outburst earlier. I was in a state of heightened stress. I lashed out at the first thing that I saw as out of place. Please do not feel as though I will be disturbed by your undressing for bed.”

“It’s alright Spock.”

McCoy undressed to his underclothes, then fell back on the bed.. 

“You still readin’ that letter?”

“Evidently.” 

“Must’ve memorised it by now.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re just torturing yourself with it now, aren’t you?”

Spock slapped the paper down on his chest.

“I would thank you to keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself,  _ doctor _ .”

McCoy rolled over to face Spock, propped up on one elbow.

“Sounds to me like you’re still in that state of heightened stress.”

Spock flung his arm over his eyes, feigning sleep. McCoy couldn’t help but smile.

_ Four o’clock bloom, turn your face to the moon _

_ Leave my heart to rest alone, _

McCoy’s singing was low, and wavered a little from lack of practice. He was not a good singer by any stretch of the imagination, but his voice was full of warmth. Spock didn’t move, frozen to the spot by the quiet words, the intimacy of the song sung just for his ears filling him with something indescribable that tingled at the tips of his fingers.

_ Hide away in the heat of day _

_ Leave me with naught but dust and bone _

Spock let the sound of McCoy’s voice wash over him, let it envelop him. The lyrics spoke of bitterness and lost love, and at some point, McCoy forgot the rest of the words and hummed the rest of the tune. But the voice… the voice felt like an embrace. Spock didn’t dare open his eyes for fear of what he might find. The guilt he still felt at McCoy dragging himself into this reared its ugly head once again, this time intensified by the man’s kindness, openly given and yet - it seemed all he could feel in return was guilt. In this uneasy state of mind, he found himself drifting. And though he was the sole occupant of his bed, he had impression that - in a strange manner he had never felt before - he was being held.

Suddenly, the bed beside him dipped, and Spock snapped right back into wakefulness, scrambling into a sitting position. McCoy sat there, his face cast mostly in shadows from the lamp.

“I need to know,” he said. His voice had changed, and was now hoarse with trepidation.

Spock tried to ask him what he wanted to know, but to prolong that, when McCoy had braved the unacknowledged feeling that stretched between them, seemed cruel.

“I do not... know how to answer,” said Spock, “I find that the appropriate words are… elusive.”

“I need you to figure it out,” said McCoy, and he sounded ragged and desperate, his hand resting on the blankets, right next to where Spock’s lay.

“I can’t keep-” McCoy broke off and looked up, swallowing whatever it was that had threatened to spill over, “I followed you out here. And if you have me I’ll keep following you because you and Jim are idiots. But I need to know if you’ll let me do anything more. Because I want - I want-”

Spock made his decision, and covered McCoy’s hand with his own. McCoy’s shoulders crumpled with relief, and a soft sigh that sounded a little like “ _ oh,” _ escaped him. Trying his best to keep his hand steady, he lifted McCoy’s hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles. McCoy lay down beside him, and Spock pulled him closer and pressed their foreheads together. McCoy began to laugh, which set Spock off as well; neither of them had realised how much the unspoken admission between the two of them had weighed until it was removed. Now, giddy with relief, Spock allowed himself to deliberately do what he had only ever achieved in moments stolen from chance - he wound his arms around McCoy’s waist and held him, closing his eyes and drinking in the feeling of their bodies pressed together. Not from exhaustion or collapse or injury, but finally from the simple desire to be close.

A sense-memory crossed Spock’s mind, the feeling of McCoy clinging to him as hard as he had clung back, the two of them trembling together on the wooden floor. Now, with McCoy nuzzling into the crook of his neck, he felt more at peace with the idea that perhaps the two of them might need to prop each other up for a while. He could do that, if affection was now an option - and if that affection was returned. The thought anchored him, and suddenly he found he was no longer sinking through the swirling eddies of his past. He was here, now. McCoy shifted, and Sarek’s letter fluttered to the floor, and Spock found that once more, he was drifting. The last thing he was aware of before sleep claimed him was the sensation of McCoy’s lips against the pulse point on his neck.

*

Kirk found the two of them like that in the morning - Spock sprawled on his back, with McCoy wound around his side, his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder. He did a mental count of how many dollars the others now owed him, then took a deep breath.

“Good morning!” he said loudly, and Spock and McCoy jerked awake simultaneously in a tangle of limbs.

“Jim!” said Spock, trying and failing to sit up in a dignified manner. McCoy was a little slower to start, and blinked blearily into awareness. Kirk set eggs and coffee down on the table, then pulled up a chair.

“Good to know the two of you figured it out,” he said, “so I think it’s time we figured out what we’re going to do today.”

“About my mother,” said Spock, and Kirk nodded. 

“You got coffee?” said McCoy, finally having made it into a sitting position. Spock stood and stretched, and McCoy absently rested his cheek against his hip as he did so. The two of them looked absolutely disastrous. Kirk thought his face might explode from how hard he was grinning.

“Yep.”

“Angel,” said McCoy, and staggered to the table.

“You’re not going to think that in a few minutes.”

McCoy eyes him suspiciously as he poured himself a cup.

“Well, Amanda knows Spock. And she knows me,” said Kirk, and McCoy choked.

“So what,” he spluttered, “you want me to-”

“Jim, I cannot condone that as a plan, surely you-”

“Gentlemen!” said Kirk, holding up his hands, “gentlemen. Hear me out.”

Spock crossed his arms, which wasn’t a good sign. McCoy gulped down the rest of the coffee, and poured himself another.

“Alright. So McCoy, you knock on their door. You do something like you’re hurt, like, ah-” Kirk put his hand to his forehead and spoke in an exaggerated high pitch, “oh excuse me sweet woman, I have done injured my ankle and it is ever so hot outside-”

“You’re not doin’ your plan any favours right now,” grumbled McCoy, scowling when Kirk winked at him.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you get inside their house. You get Amanda alone. You tell her we’ve got people there ready to rescue her, and tell her to prepare to leave that night. We come back, collect Amanda, and go on our merry way!”

Kirk looked immensely proud of himself, but deflated a little when he realised Spock and McCoy’s expressions hadn’t changed.

“I assume she’ll clear up any details in the story that we’re still not sure on,” he finished lamely.

“What if my mother is aware of the plot?” said Spock, “this plan does not account for the unnecessary danger that eventuality may put her  _ and _ Doctor McCoy in.”

“I can be careful about it,” said McCoy, the plan now beginning to take shape in his head, “I could say something to her like… I’ve got a message from you. And gauge her reaction.”

“That is a horrendous idea,” said Spock, “absolutely not.”

“So what’s your proposal then?” said Kirk. When Spock didn’t reply, he sat back in his seat and wiggled both eyebrows.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

“There are three of us,” said Spock, “and only two of them.”

“What, so you want to go in there guns - oh wait, no,  _ gun _ blazing because you’re going to have to borrow one of mine - and just kidnap your mother back? That sounds like a fantastic idea. No, don’t-” Kirk said quickly, when it looked like he was about to get an irritated retort from Spock, “what I’m saying is, we don’t know what’s going on here. We need to find out. And we need the element of surprise on our side.”

“He’s right, Spock,” said McCoy, “and as much as I don’t love the idea, I’ll do it. You two will be nearby anyway, so if things do go south, you can do your big rescue mission plan.”

“I cannot-” said Spock, fighting through the self-condemnation that threatened to swallow him whole, “allow you to-”

“Allow me? Try and stop me, Spock.” 

“That’s the spirit,” said Kirk, “now eat your breakfast and we’ll be on our way.”

*

The hideout in question looked innocuous enough. True to how Kirk had described it, it was a largish cabin, situated in the middle of a clearing of gnarled trees. There was nobody outside, but the chimney was going. The horses were nervous - now that they’d dismounted, they hopped restlessly from foot to foot. Bessie kept nudging at McCoy’s shoulder, sensing his apprehension.

“Alright,” said Kirk, “you reckon you can convincingly fake an injury?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” said McCoy, “I’ll just… limp there or somethin’.”

“No, this is important,” said Kirk, “show me how you’re going to do it.”

McCoy stared at him, incredulous, but Kirk showed no signs that he was joking.

“Okay, er-” he faltered, “ow.”

Kirk began to slowly clap.

“Bravo doctor, that’s wonderful. I think you’ve got it in the bag.”

“Dammit man, I’m a doctor!” said McCoy, “I hadn’t thought this part through. Hold on, just let me-”

McCoy concentrated for a moment, trying to dredge up the feeling of being injured. 

“Aaaah,” he groaned, staggering on the spot. Kirk bit his lip, and Spock buried his face in his hands.

“Doctor,” said Spock, “if you are unable to carry out the most crucial part of this plan, we will have to think of another.”

“No!” said McCoy, “no. We can’t - I’ve got to do this. She knows you two.”

He thought for a moment, and then an idea dawned on him.

“Jim,” he said quickly, “punch me.”

“Do  _ not _ punch him!” Spock half-shouted. 

Kirk punched him.

*

Kirk hadn’t held back on his punch, and if McCoy was being honest he was still a little dizzy from it. It worked for him, of course, but he didn’t like his chances of thinking on his feet if the time called for it. Oh well.

The door swung open though, and to his relief, it was a woman. Amanda. In the photograph, her hair had been fashionably coiffed and her neatly pressed dress artfully arranged for the portrait. Right now though, Amanda’s hair was worn in one long, grey braid down her back. She was dressed in a man’s shirt that was far too large for her, tucked into jeans. Her face was different too - surprisingly, softer and kinder than she had appeared, although that might easily have just been from the amount of time she’d had to sit for the photograph to be taken.

“Excuse me ma’am,” said McCoy, and he did not have to feign the way he wobbled slightly where he stood, “could I trouble you for a bit of help? I ran into some trouble on the road, and I’ve lost my horse.”

Amanda hesitated for a moment.

“What happened?” she said. She was cautious, but he could see she was weighing up the possibility of letting him in.

“Robbed,” replied McCoy, “bastards - sorry ma’am - the culprits got away with my horse, my bags - everythin’. I’ve been walkin’ for hours, but I came across your place and - well. I wondered if you might have a little water to spare, given it’s awful hot out today.”

She took a step back, and the door closed just a fraction - he’d said the wrong thing. Was he elaborating too much?

“You just stay out there then, and I’ll fetch you somethin’.”

Goddamnit. Of course she’d say that. He hadn’t made it sound bad enough.

“Of course ma’am, you’re very kind.”

McCoy hoped to god there were no sharp objects on the floor around him. He gave what he hoped was a not-too-dramatic sigh, and crumpled to the ground.

His body hit the floor with a thump, and while he was certain he’d have some interesting bruises tomorrow, overall he thought he’d done a pretty good job. He focused on relaxing everything, and slowed down his breaths. 

“Anders!” called Amanda, a note of panic in her voice, “Anders, you’d better get here right now!”

People did not normally speak to their captors like that. McCoy’s heart immediately began to beat faster, and he focused on keeping his breathing shallow, despite the fact that his lungs no longer felt like they were taking in enough air. He heard a muttered “what the hell?” and an irritated “hey!” from Amanda, and some quiet whispering that sounded quite heated, ending in Amanda hissing “just do it!”

Then he was being lifted, and he let his head loll backwards, his right arm dangling at an awkward angle. Then, a slightly sickening feeling of vertigo as he was carried somewhere, and then dumped on something soft, but lumpy. Some kind of sofa? It smelled musty with disuse, and he fought the urge to wrinkle his nose.

He could sense that they were standing over him, and he concentrated on his breathing, keeping it as slow and even as he could manage.

“Should we tie him up?” said Anderson.

_ Breathe, _ thought McCoy, even as his heartbeat began to pound in his ears. It was so intense he was sure they’d hear it.  _ Breathe. Slow. It’s okay. Whatever the hell you do, don’t fucking crack. _

“That means we’d have to get rid of him,” snapped Amanda, “use your brain. Just don’t act suspicious around him and he can be on his way as soon as he’s awake enough.”

“You’ll have to play nice when that happens, then,” said Anderson, his voice sullen.

“Maybe if you didn’t make that so difficult for me,” came Amanda’s retort.

McCoy was glad for the opportunity to collect his thoughts. This was the one thing they hadn’t taken into account here - the possibility that Amanda was the one calling the shots. He prayed they’d get the hell out of here soon, because trying to control his panicked breathing was making him feel like he was slowly suffocating, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up for.

“Go get him some water,” said Amanda, “he’ll need it when he wakes up. It’ll look rude if we don’t.”

“Ah, get your own water,” grumbled Anderson, but his footsteps left the room, and the door opened and closed. Once he was gone, there was a hand on his shoulder that, in his current state of stress, startled him so much he couldn’t help but jump. 

The game was up. 

McCoy opened his eyes, and tried not to shrink back from the steely glint that was currently being returned by Amanda.

“You’re an awful actor,” said Amanda, “you must think I’m an idiot.”

“No ma’am,” gasped McCoy, not daring to move. Amanda’s expression shifted to bemusement.

“Explain yourself. You’re obviously a terrible liar, so if you try it, I’ll know.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said McCoy, “I’ve got a message for you about Spock.”

It was as if Amanda transformed on the spot. Her cool gaze fell away to reveal something more genuine - worry and fear, the kind born out of care - and love.

“What’s happened to him?” she said, “has Sarek-” 

Her voice faded out to a whisper, hardly daring to speak what she was afraid of out loud in case she made it real.

“No, he’s okay. He’s alright. Amanda - what’s going on here?”

“What do you need to tell me about him?” she seized his hands, gripping them tightly.

At that moment, the door burst open and Anderson came back in with a bucket, then stopped in his tracks.

“It’s alright,” said Amanda, holding up a hand, “it’s okay. He’s got news about Spock.”

“Still alive then?” said Anderson.

“Yes,” said Amanda, then turned back to McCoy.

“You were saying?”

McCoy swallowed. He made a decision, and prayed to god it was the right one.

“Ma’am,” he said, “when I said I had a message about Spock, I meant… I meant I had a message  _ from _ Spock. He’s right outside. If I go and whistle, him and Jim Kirk will come runnin’.”

“Call them,” said Amanda, pulling him upright and pushing him towards the door. McCoy stepped outside, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. Immediately, Kirk and Spock broke out from behind the trees and ran towards them, each of them holding one of Kirk’s guns. McCoy noted that Spock was holding his in his left hand - and also like he’d never held a gun at all before in his life. He lifted his hands and waved at them.

“Spock! Jim! It’s alright, you can put those away!” he shouted. The two men slowed to a jog, and stopped in front of them. Spock let his hands fall to his sides, and Kirk had the presence of mind to take the gun off him before he stepped forwards to greet Amanda.

“Mother,” he said softly.

“Oh Spock,” she said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but the words didn’t come. The two of them watched each other - Spock with barely controlled unease, Amanda with a sadness that bordered on open grief.

“I think you’d best all come inside,” she said, “I think I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

*

So it came to pass that Jim Kirk, Spock, and Leonard McCoy sat on Amanda’s couch, so close together that their knees were pressed up against each other. They sat awkwardly, their hands in their laps, unsure of what to say, or how to behave in the presence of Spock’s mother - and whoever else she was.

“I never thought Sarek would ask you to help him,” said Amanda, staring down at the floor, “it was - it was the one thing I was absolutely counting on for this to work.”

“I will admit, his actions surprised me too,” said Spock. His voice had lost all intonation, he spoke in a monotone.

“Sarek is not a good man,” said Amanda, and Spock shifted imperceptibly between Kirk and McCoy.

“This was never a question for debate,” said Spock, “he admits as much himself, freely. He is undiscerning about the clientele he selects to take on for his work, regardless of… allegiances.”

“Yes, but I loved him, Spock,” said Amanda, “and you’d be surprised how much you can turn a blind eye to when that’s the case.”

“I can only hope that I will never have to do so,” replied Spock. His voice was devoid of all emotion, and McCoy fought the urge to reach his arm around and hold him, or place his hand on his knee - anything, to give him some comfort from… this.

“I hope so too,” said Amanda, “but for me, when I realised what had happened, it was too little, too late. I realised I’d become a part of something that I just… couldn’t-”

“So you kidnapped yourself,” said Spock, slight confusion making its way through his voice. He pondered this for a moment, and then tilted his head to the side.

“Your wish was to frame him.”

“That’s right,” she said, “with him out of the picture? The rest of his awful organisation would crumble to dust. Anders too - the man’s an asshole, but eventually any sane person gets sick of having to side with the morally corrupt.”

Spock’s hands were clasped together so hard the knuckles had turned white. McCoy could feel the tension radiating from him, and placed a hand lightly on his arm. 

“Then, instead of rescuing you, we have interfered with your plan.”

“You’re not the first,” said Amanda, “Anders did that already by swiping Sarek’s gun, the idiot. You boys at least have your hearts in the right place.”

“Nevertheless,” said Spock, his voice wavering, “we have placed you in danger. We should not have come here.”

Amanda rose from her chair and knelt in front of Spock, taking his hands in her own. 

“Spock,” she said, “I need you to listen to me very carefully. We’ve had a long time apart, so I’ve had a long time to think about this. About what I would say to you, if we ever met again.”

Spock bowed his head as low as it would go, but he did not pull away.

“Your father - he got where he is today because he’s good at listening to people, observing them, and then using their own words against themselves… When he threw out your first flower pressings, he told you it was to stop the other children from laughing at you. I saw him using you - your love - as ammunition against you. Against a child! And when you cried it broke my heart so much I didn’t think of the consequences, only that I wanted to make you feel better. I told you it was alright. I told you you’d find other things to love, and that if you kept your chin up and smiled, you’d find them. I-”

A droplet fell from Spock’s face, and landed on his leg.

“I thought I was teaching you optimism. How to have a sunny outlook on life. Instead, in ignoring what Sarek did to you, I taught you it was your fault. I taught you to be guilty.”

Spock drew in a shuddering breath and withdrew his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His shoulders began to shake, and suddenly the control he had tried so hard to keep himself under slipped, and he began to cry in earnest. 

“Spock,” said Amanda through her own tears, and Spock surged forwards suddenly, sliding to the floor so that the two of them knelt together. Overwhelmed, he flung his arms around her shoulders and wept. Kirk tugged discreetly at McCoy’s sleeve, and nodded towards the door. McCoy took the hint and the two of them left quietly, allowing mother and son their moment together. 

To her credit, Amanda simply let Spock cry. He hid away in her arms like she had always longed for him to be allowed to do, and he sobbed - ugly sounds that tore at her heart. She let herself feel that pain, hoping that perhaps the sharing of this thing, this tangled burden of confusion and anger and betrayal that they had foisted upon their son, might begin to lift. If only by a little. She stroked his hair as his tears began to subside, and whispered to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over, and then - “I know you can never forgive me for something like this. But I’m… I’m so sorry, Spock.”

Spock, exhausted and wrung dry of emotion, simply knelt and let her words wash past him. He felt empty - not the heavy kind of emptiness that often came with his bouts of melancholy, but like he had been scrubbed clean of something. Like he had been tipped over and poured out, and with some time and rest, perhaps he might be able to start to be filled again with something new.

*

Three horses stood in the stables at the Bridge Hotel. Brown Bessie, freshly groomed and excited to head off. The grey horse Spock had ridden in on, whom they’d decided to call Pavel (after a particularly long rant from the man in question about how his hair was starting to go white). Last of all, there was a stately palomino horse who looked like it had been spun out of gold. This one was Uhura’s, also obvious from the ribbons that she liked to braid into her mane.

Uhura was going with them, because now that they weren’t going to be returning Amanda to Sarek, he would be after them. Until they could convince the relevant authorities of Amanda’s “disappearance,” they were in danger. As soon as she had heard what had happened, Uhura had begun to pack her things, and announced that she would be escorting them to a town that was a safe enough distance away - Enterprise was, unfortunately, too obvious.

They had just finished readying the horses when Kirk came down to see them off. He entered with his hands behind his back and a poor attempt at nonchalance in his smile.

“What is it?” said McCoy. He’d only known Kirk for a few days, but being of the similar category of person (namely, “people Spock made friends with easily”), he could tell when he was up to something.

“Not you,” sang Kirk, “although I like you very much too!”

“Spock,” said McCoy, “your annoying friend’s here to see you.”

“Ah, Jim.”

Spock came out from Pavel’s stall, dusting off his hands. Kirk debated feigning offence, but he was too excited to bother with it.

“Spock, I got you something,” he said. Spock raised an eyebrow, and Kirk brought his hands out from behind his back.

“Ta-dah!”

Spock’s eyes widened as he looked at the large, leather-bound book Kirk was holding out. It had been stamped with little designs of daisies, their stems intertwining to form a little border.

“I figured you’re probably going to come across some interesting plants on your way,” said Kirk. Spock was speechless, turning the journal over in his hands reverently, like he was handling some greatly delicate treasure.

“Jim,” he breathed, “I-”

“I know it doesn’t replace what you’ve lost,” said Kirk quickly, “but I thought that-”

“It is perfect,” said Spock, “and a fitting start. I find myself looking at the same flowers I always have from... a slightly new perspective now.”

Spock’s eyes strayed to McCoy, who immediately turned bright red and went to fiddle with Bessie’s harness.

“It will be like discovering them all for the first time, all over again. I look forward to the new insights I may find.”

“Why Spock, you’re a romantic,” said Kirk, and his eyes held so much warmth and fondness in them, Spock couldn’t find it in himself to give him a retort. He embraced him instead.

Packed and ready, Spock, McCoy and Uhura rode out into the main street. The sun was still new in the sky, and the morning had not yet begun to warm.

“You know,” said Spock, as they made their way out of the town, “there is still time for us to leave you in a town nearby, where you need not worry about the continuing threat of my father. You have options, in what is becoming a very dangerous situation.”

McCoy - who by now had figured out when the words that came out of Spock’s mouth really meant that he needed reassurance - smiled.

“Well, that’s my decision Spock,” he said, “and when the choice is between staying with you or going away? I’ll always choose the danger.”


End file.
